Yeah, gimme that! That's what I'm talking bout. POT HOLE HERE!It wasn't your beatnik peace and love bug; this was your Silence of the Lambs, come meet Precious, variety van that rolled up on me like a teen aged girl in a horror flick.
Dirty, grey, the brooding sound FX a nice eerie touch. Or was that just the muffler jing-jangling cross the tarway? No matter, this evildoer definitely missed the Cash for Clunkers cut off. And here I was cruising the Beverly Hills of MogoCo with but a balaclava betwixt my prickly nape and el Reaper de Torment.
But just before Rodeo Drive (aka Popo Alley aka Chevy Chase) the grey, grim reaper finally passed me by. Maybe he had visions of ill will dancing in his head. Maybe the old girl topped out at 25. I put my imagination back in my hip pocket, left the aging Shaggy to wander, and ignored my knight in black Kevlar armor idling by Tiffany's.
Not two blocks later I saw Shabby Shaggy lurking in the shadows of a side street like a vulture on his prey. Pray, Prey, pray! Quick! In here! I duck into a dark, cavernous pot hole. No one will ever find me in here.
As I crawled back out there was no sign of Van Man in sight. To be doubly sure I shook him, I commandeered a corner and changed the tire I just annihilated on the infamous White Rim.
Yes, the very same from a few entries back. Indeed I understand how it looks, but the shop assured me pot holes eat back tires not front. Surely you see my conundrum....if the front wheel is swallowed in a chasmous salt flat leaving the back wheel teetering above how Prey, do tell, is it the back not the front that is eaten for breakfast?
All this talk about eating is making me hungry, but please, please no more pancakes!
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